Crack
by silver.tongued.serpent
Summary: As Hermione thinks about the ring on her finger, and the marriage attached to it, she considers her options. And when Ron comes home, she's made a decision. A contemplation, confrontation, and conclusion.


A/N: Prompt of "ring, abused housewife, 'I will end you for this'" Also, I promise I'm not actually a Romione hater! Although I think they aren't meant for each other I don't tend to think of Ron as an abusive husband. But that's just how it worked out for this story. I hope you still enjoy.

Hermione stared down at the ring on her hand, failing to stop the slight trembling of her fingers, and tried to recall when it had started feeling more like a weight than anything else. It couldn't have always been like this, could it? She must have seen _something_ in him to make her say yes, to agree to this shackle that was becoming more unbearable each day. Steam rose from the pot of soup she was stirring as she contemplated.

She knew the answer of course. She had said yes because without him she never would have been accepted into society, no matter her participation in the war that was meant to change all of that. Hermione was no fool and she knew that even if the Light had won, all that had really changed was that now it was seen as socially unacceptable to say Mudblood— at least in public, that is. She felt she was the only one not deluded by the war's end. Her, and, perhaps, Malfoy. He had smirked at her from across the Ministry atrium just the other day. Conveying in such a simple glance how he knew of her appeals being ignored, her propositions "lost," her projects denied and all because she was a dirty Muggleborn and the Ministry was and always would be filled with pompous, ignorant prats.

She supposed she had also married him for the romance of it. After all, every girl dreams of being swept into a passionate embrace. Even if most girls likely weren't picturing the middle of a battleground, arms full of poisonous fangs, as the backdrop for the end of their fairytale. And that initial, heady rush that came along with saying yes covered the less savory aspects of it— the jealousy, the laziness, the _expectations_. Oh god, the expectations. Let's just forget that she had her own career that she was working on and barely had time to breathe amidst the flurry of paper airplane messages, owls, meetings, legislation writing, and research that she had to do (and do _now_ before everyone forgot about the war). Oh no, she was also expected to clean their apartment, and cook, and look pretty (but not _too_ pretty), and be ready and willing whenever he was in the mood. And even when she did her best to do all of those things, and had ever since, Hermione was tired. Tired of her cooking "not being quite as good as Mum's," tired of him not even bothering to pretend he knew any cleaning charms, tired of snide comments about her "figure" changing, and, most of all, tired of the sex. It was never anything more than rushed, some quick pumping in and out and then done. Where were the long snogging sessions she had dreamed of after reading her first romance novel (right under Pince's nose too)? Where were the gentle caresses, the staring into each other's eyes? Where was _her_ pleasure? Hermione was tired. Hermione was tired and she was done. Finally _finally_ done.

She stirred the pot a little more viciously before placing a stasis charm over it and collapsing into the plush red (god forbid there be any furniture that wasn't red or gold in the house) armchair. Just as she was about to pull out a new research paper on the effect of moon phases on the brewing hellebore-based potions she heard the door creak open.

"Hi love, I'm home! Is dinner ready yet?"

Hermione seethed. As if she couldn't tell he was home. Who else would be opening the door and immediately requesting dinner?

"Yes. It is," she bit out.

He rounded the corner, barely sparing her a glance as he headed straight for the stove, and Hermione felt herself still at the sight of him. She was definitely done. She touched the ring on her hand gently, then stood.

"Ron, we need to talk."

"Sure! Wow this smells great, 'Mione. What's going on?"

"I'm done."

"Done with…? Your job? I've been telling you to quit for ages now— I'm glad you're finally seeing sense."

"No, Ron. Not done with my job. Done with you. This. Us."

He turned from the stove, confusion turning to anger as he processed her words.

"Done? You can't be done. We're married remember?"

"Oh are we? I'd completely forgotten!" Hermione said, her voice getting shrill. "Of course I know we're married, Ronald! That's the whole problem. We're married and I no longer _want_ to be married… to you at least."

He was nearly in front her now, his face flushed to match his hair.

"Where is this even coming from, Hermione? You've never said anything before besides your usual nagging. I thought we were happy!"

"Of course you did! That's the whole problem! I do _everything_ around here and you act as if you're expecting me to be your mother and wife and driveling fan girl all in one! I'm so sick and tired of it! Sick and tired of you being a lazy, ignorant, boorish brute!"

 _Crack!_

Her neck twisted sharply to the side.

Now there was only silence. Hermione stood with her hand on her cheek as he stood before her. His eyes were wide as he stared at her, his head slowly moving from side to side as if he were shaking water from his ears in slow motion, or perhaps denying anything had even happened.

"We're done, Ron."

She pulled the ring off of her finger and dropped it to the floor. And she walked out of the door feeling lighter than she had in years, even as her cheek throbbed. As she passed through the, still open, doorway she whispered, "I will end you for this."


End file.
